Posts by shawnajean

He did not yell it. The voice met my ears just as the light changed and I rode away. I looked back at the pedestrian who was still standing on the curb, smiling, with his black hair in a ponytail, wearing a tan Members’ Only-type jacket, hands in pockets. He looked like someone out on his lunch hour, someone who pays his taxes. I laughed a little at the surprising statement and his audacity to make it. It was a chilly day and I was on my way to the drug store, bundled up in jeans, black hoodie, scarf, sunglasses and helmet. I mean, I wasn’t even wearing my little bike skirt! But I don’t think street harassment is caused by what we’re wearing, and though I do think, as the Hollaback movement states, it’s about intimidation or making targets feel uncomfortable, my guess is that this man meant this sentence as a genuine, spontaneous compliment. I was not mad. I am not sexless or humorless. It just got me thinking.

Being out and about on a bike makes us more accessible than someone in a car driving around in a bubble of music or silence, tuning the world out while focusing on the road. I am vulnerable to the elements (I’ve learned what a good windbreaker actually feels like), moving vehicles, loud sirens, clouds of pot and cigarette smoke, bus exhaust, broken glass and yes—people. Sometimes this is my favorite part of riding—people ask me for directions, other cyclists sometimes chat me up, cops wave me through road blocks, kids smile when I ring my bell as I pass by. Other times, men hoot, holler, whistle, comment on my body parts, and feel the need to tell me to “be careful” or tell me how I look. I wonder how many men on bikes hear how sexy they look each day? And why is it kind of funny to imagine the situation reversed? There is a line between accessible and vulnerable. Who draws it?

My new book is finally here and out in the world! It enjoyed a lovely debut at Stories Books and Cafe in Echo Park this past weekend, where 6 contributors brought their words to life in a standing-room-only reading to an appreciative crowd. My favorite comment of the evening after a night full of laughs– “all readings should be erotica”–said by my husband. Next stops: Oakland, San Francisco, Chicago, Orange County and who knows where else our words will land? That is always the way of writing, isn’t it? We release our thoughts and souls to the page, hoping they will be received by the right readers. Writing is an act of courage and faith.

It was 1989. I was nineteen, and meeting my boyfriend at the Hung Jury Pub in DC, which is how I accidentally ended up at a show where GWAR and the Mentors were playing. The Mentors opened with a little ditty called “My Bitch is on the Rag.” My boyfriend was late in arriving and I suddenly became acutely aware of being the only female in the entire crowd. Enter GWAR, whose costumes made them look like frightening cartoon characters personified. Fake blood dripped from their mouths, half-naked painted women danced in chains on the side of the musicians, a creamy white substance spewed from the penis of a giant rubber sheep, and I quickly learned to always stand in the back at a GWAR show.

Two years later my friend Pam and I found ourselves riding in a tour bus from DC to Richmond with Cali band Social Distortion, whom I was much more enamored of at the time. We were always game for a roadtrip, and tagging along to Richmond sounded good. Once there, the band sound-checked while we wandered the streets. We noticed a tiny GWAR sticker on the locked glass door of a two-story brick loft. “Wouldn’t it be funny if GWAR lived here?” we asked each other. We rang the doorbell. A normal-looking long-haired guy stuck his head out of an open window above.

“Whaddya want?” he growled.

“Um, hi. We do a ‘zine in DC and we’d like to interview GWAR,” I squeaked.

“Sure, c’mon up,” says the dude, throwing down a set of keys. Pam and I stared at each other, stunned. We let ourselves in, walked up the stairs, and entered GWARdom: an expansive renovated warehouse loft filled with giant Viking helmets, masks, rubber-intestine-covered guitars, fake axes, shields, machetes, and other Highlander-type accoutrements. The longhaired dude introduced himself as Dave, gave us a tour around the studio, and asked us if we’d like to sit down with him to a TV dinner. We passed on the frozen entrée, but had such a good time exploring the amazing GWAR-space, we missed Social D’s show entirely. (Mike Ness never even noticed.)

The next time I saw GWAR was in the mid-90s, when their stage show involved slitting the throat of a life-sized OJ Simpson. I also witnessed them once as RAWG, their unmasked alter ego. But GWAR without the elaborate costumes is a little like Kiss without the make-up.

I later interviewed GWAR for the Wilmington, North Carolina Star News as they plundered through the states on their “Mock the Vote” tour in support of their “War Party” CD. As much as I admired their ridicule of the 2004 presidential election, I was in no mood for GWAR humor before this conversation started. Doctors had recently discovered a benign brain tumor (a meningioma) in my friend Harriette’s forehead. I went to Baltimore to see my best-friend-since-9th-grade through the surgery, but still on-deadline for the North Carolina paper I was writing for, had to interview the band via phone, then email the final write-up the following day. I spoke with Oderus Urungus (AKA: Dave Brockie, founding member and self-proclaimed ‘golden-throated crooner’) from the Johns Hopkins University Hospital cafeteria on December 8, 2004. Before we began I blathered my friend’s entire story to him—how she had a three-month-old son at home, how her dog had recently died and she’d just endured ear surgery, how I was waiting for a call-back from the hospital social worker about obtaining a breast-pump for her to use post-surgery, how my husband and I were named as guardians in her living will should anything go awry, and how her last groggy words before going in were “please take care of my boy.” Not what Oderus had expected when his publicist gave him a list of reporters to call that day, I’m sure. But Dave listened, commiserated, and even offered to call back later from the road. He was human, and I was no longer an anonymous journalist on the other end of the phone. The artist/audience barrier was broken, just how punk is supposed to be.

We went ahead with the interview anyway. The results are below. And Harriette’s tumor was removed successfully.

Yesterday I sat on a bench at the bus stop, on my way to yoga. Another woman sat on the other end of the bench, with a space between us. An older man with a suitcase walked up and stared at the space, as if he wanted to sit down. I had my headphones on and was listening to an audiobook, so gestured for him to sit down and scooted over to make more room for him. He sat and started to chit-chat. I took out one earbud and he asked where I was from, then, “Are you from Singapore?” I said I was from Washington, DC originally and he slurred, “you never met the president!” I agreed, I had not, and he started rambling about how he had. By now I noticed alcohol on his breath and I became anxious to get back to my book. “I’m listening to a book,” I said, gesturing to my earbuds and smiling. “I’m going to go back to my book now.” I did just that—and that’s when he started to rage. “You bitch! You think you’re better than everyone here? Blah blah blah…” I turned up the volume. As his rant proceeded, I got up and walked away from the bench, standing near the curb, looking down the street for a bus that seemed it’d never come. Five other people stood around, trying to ignore us. He got up walked toward me, now yelling obscenities. I took one earbud out said said, “look, dude… I tried to be nice to you but if you don’t leave me alone, I’m calling the police!” He laughed and said to go ahead, that he didn’t have any warrants, blah blah blah. By now I couldn’t hear my audiobook and I was Googling the police department’s non-emergency number. As my call connected , the man got in my face and yelled into the phone, “she called me a nigger!” as the operator said hello. I walked away and explained to the operator that there was a man harassing me at a bus stop. After giving the location, my phone number, and his description, I got off the phone. Another woman walked over to me to ask what time the bus was coming. I don’t know if she was trying to offer a buffer or genuinely had a question, but I answered her, then the man ranted toward her, and a few minutes later the bus came.

We all got on. My plan was to sit near the driver but there were no seats available there, and the harasser and his suitcase sat nearby. I went straight to the back and sat with a bunch of teenage boys. The ride was pleasant, until the harasser’s stop came and as he departed through the back doors, he yelled something toward me. (I was back to my book but my fellow passengers all looked astounded).

I made it to yoga. My breathing was shallow throughout the opening meditation as I mentally replayed what had just happened, wondering what I could have done differently. I kept thinking about the fact that this was not the first time I’ve been harassed on public transportation and it probably wouldn’t be the last. I see it happen to other women all the time—guys trying to crack jokes or commenting on their bodies. And why should we have to talk to anyone we don’t feel like talking to? If I had employed the tactics of the hollaback movement and taken this guy’s picture or filmed him, I bet he would have hit me. I was seething about the discomfort and fear this causes on an every day basis and I wondered why I even left the house on this day. I wished I rode my bike instead. I worried about all the women and girls on public transportation everywhere in the entire world. But then, things like this don’t just happen to women and not just on public transportation. We live in a country of wealth and poverty—the so-called “haves and have-nots,” which makes for a lot of uncomfortable situations.

Over Christmas, a friend was visiting from New York. We took him to our favorite local taco place, and when we all sat down to eat, a homeless man wandered in and hovered over our table, mumbling something through his few teeth. Our friend humored him for a second and then said “bro, you’re kind of in my space.” The guy stayed standing there. We ignored him until a big drop of drool fell from his mouth to the side of our visitor’s plate. The friend stood up angrily and told him to leave. The restaurant owner rushed over and ushered the man outside, asking her husband to call the police. The man knew her name and from what I know of her, I assume she has fed him before. He stared through the window at us until the police arrived and took him away. None of us felt much like eating anymore. A week later this friend told us he called our precinct on Christmas Eve to see if the guy was still there. He asked the front desk what his needs might be, then hand-delivered slippers, a robe, soap, toothpaste and other necessities to the man that night. “I don’t ever want anyone to think that I think I’m better than they are,” were his words of explanation to us. I love him for this.

By the middle of my yoga class yesterday, I was focused on my own breath, beads of sweat forming from my slow and controlled movements. At the end of class, in the closing meditation, the teacher urged us to use the benefits of the practice to bless others in the world. As always, we closed with “Namaste,” meaning “the divine in me bows to the divine in you.” The divine part of us can bow to one another but the human parts often get ugly. I conjured compassion the best I could, thinking about the fact that this guy was most likely mentally ill. He is homeless and I was homeless once in my late teens, so I do empathize. I understand that I get to go to a nice yoga class and then back to my nice house and rewarding career and I am not drunk at 8 am on a Wednesday. After posting about the event on Facebook and asking, “how do other women deal with stuff like this?” two friends—one male, one female—called me just to check in and make sure I was okay. I am grateful for all of this. None of this excuses his behavior toward me, either. I don’t want to be yelled at or degraded while going about my life and at times, I must protect myself. I also want to operate with love rather than fear.

I’m co-leading a writing retreat in Denmark this summer from August 17th – 23rd. This is really a dream-come-true for me. I’ve taught in Denmark and visited several times, but this will be the first time teaching and staying in a castle (that’s very exciting for us Americans). It’s a beautiful country and I’m partnering with an extraordinary journalist and friend. The response so far has been absolutely astounding and I am SO looking forward to helping others to achieve their writing dreams while in Hamletland! Someone’s writing in the state of Denmark–could it be you?

I just had the worst yoga experience. The teacher was 10 minutes late. He didn’t apologize—he just launched into yelling instructions and proceeded to “correct” student postures by poking a long, pointer-like stick at their ribs, shoulder blades, sacrum and other body parts. I’ve practiced yoga for 12 years now, in various states and countries, and never have I seen such a thing. This teacher was new to me, and I was not impressed, though the class was full and he seemed to have a following.

At the first prod, my husband and I looked at each other with surprise and confusion on our faces. “If he touches me with that stick, we’re going to have a big problem,” I whispered. I did end up staying the duration of the class—I took it as a challenge to focus on myself and “make it MY class” as other teachers have encouraged. Plus, I like to think every teacher has something to teach me. On this night I re-learned that kind words and an inspiring attitude always motivate me more than fear and a stern voice. I grew up in a military household and such tactics stifled my growth instead of nurturing it. There I learned to be quiet and never share a differing opinion or vulnerable feeling, for fear of being berated or spanked. Modeling good poses (and behavior) makes me aspire to be like the teachers who demonstrate such things, whether in yoga or writing or anything else.

I have heard horror stories from young writers about mean English teachers with red pens and I’ve witnessed creativity-crushing struggles with grammar. This yoga was listed as an intro class. I hate to imagine what a newcomer might think of yoga if this were his or her only impression. I won’t be returning to this particular yoga class. I will continue my practice with teachers I find more effective and I will always strive to uplift in my writing classes. I never want to squash anyone’s potential.

People often ask me what it’s like to teach online. I got in on the online education craze in 2007, fresh out of grad school. I first learned Moodle and then eCollege for what turned out to be a shady for-profit “school.” Later I took a seminar on the UCLA campus to learn Blackboard for teaching my online UCLA Extension classes, which came in handy when a community college where I was teaching was looking for adjuncts interested in teaching online (some of the tenured faculty in that English department told me they would only ever teach traditional on-ground classes). I upgraded my Moodle skills while teaching a hybrid course at a women’s university. Later I taught some of my own private writing workshops online first using googlegroups, then the free version of the Moodle software, and now use Blackboard to supplement on-ground classes (as a way to send announcements, post required reading, and keep track of grades) as well as a way to facilitate fully online classes. I love the faces and spontaneous nature of a traditional classroom, but I enjoy the reach and innovation online learning offers, too. I’ve been fortunate enough to be on book tours or teach journalism seminars in Denmark while teaching online for schools in the US. Have computer–will travel. I can’t say I like one teaching environment better than another; they are different.

Back when I taught literature at a community college, I recognized one of the writers in our anthology as a colleague from my LA literary scene. The students had responded so well to his short story, I Tweeted to tell him about it, and he messaged me to ask if he could see any of the response papers they’d written. Many were happy to share. This gave me an idea in planning my next semester—I created a Twitter name and hashtag for our lit class (#pglit) and gave extra credit to students who tweeted about our readings or tweeted to living authors and poets. They tweeted Sherman Alexie, Larry Fondation, Maya Angelou and even other lit professors. In 130 characters or less at a time, they discussed Faulkner, Chopin, Dickinson, Hansberry, Poe, and Tupac. They learned of local open mic nights, bookstores and poetry readings in our city, and some even learned how to use Twitter, just to get in on the outside-of-class conversation. What more could a literature prof want than for students to be excited about the written word?

When I was in grad school, I’d taken a workshop with Bill Roorbach, a visiting writer whose work stuck with me. Six years later, I decided to use his book, Writing Life Stories, in teaching my Intermediate Memoir Writing class online for UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. I tweeted about it and he unexpectedly replied, offering to visit my classroom. I had to explain that my classroom was online, but that wouldn’t stop the plan—we’d just have to be creative. I obtained a password for him and he agreed to participate in some way after his book tour, for a week or two of my 10-week course. I announced the arrangement to my students and asked them to gather questions for our textbook author in the first few weeks of class. They posted them in the designated forum and he obliged with generous and inspiring answers about halfway through the quarter. Later he asked permission to use the exchanges on his blog, which most agreed to, some even adding artwork. I should add that no money was exchanged for this erudition. But look at it this way—students writing from France, Seattle, Chicago, Colorado and Southern California got to interact with an acclaimed author in Vermont—and the author witnessed one of his books applied in a pedagogical way, all thanks to the Internet Universe. While academic bureaucracy and limited funding often frustrate the hell out of me, I firmly believe online interactions like these make us all a bit richer.

I just finished teaching a private writing workshop and asked my students to (anonymously) list the qualities they look for in a good class. Together it makes a great manifesto-of-sorts, for future reference. Here’s a flyer for their upcoming public reading, by the way–a fantastic bunch!

Oh, and I use Grammarly for proofreading because even the teacher can’t catch all the mistakes, all the time.

In a perfect writing workshop…

All writers provide feedback on time

All writers come to class on time

Attitudes/egos are suspended

Every writer is dedicated to improving his or her own work as well as others